Knotty, Nice, & Holiday Lights (Crescent Lake Cozy Omegaverse #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“You’re firing me?”

I had meant to remain calm. I really, really had. But I’m pretty sure my voice comes out as a shriek.

The art director, Troy, who’s my supervisor, cringes from behind his desk as he looks up at me.

I don’t remember jumping out of my seat, but here we are.

“I don’t make the decisions, Iz. I’m just forced to deliver the news.” A grimace. “If it were up to me, you’d stay. You’re an amazing engineer and artist.”

I know I am. I don’t need Troy to tell me so. But for fuck’s sake! Thanksgiving is in, like, a week. I just lost my only source of income, and I haven’t even finished my Christmas shopping yet!

“I’ll write a letter of recommendation and send it to you before the holiday.”

I narrow my gaze on this man who, until this moment, I’d considered a friend. Sort of.

Maybe, despite his title, I just never saw him as above me in the ranks here at CheckPoint Games. And the longer I stare at him, the more I realize this guy is a total tool. In the literal sense.

He does the dirty work of the owners, who do the dirty work of the shareholders.

How poetic.

I don’t think I say a word before spinning on the ball of my sneaker-clad foot and storming out of his office for the materials room, where I cut the plastic ties of a box of paper reams, dump the contents on the floor, and head to my desk with the empty box.

I’ve worked at this company for years, and I’ve never been so thankful not to be a pack-rat in my life, as I stuff my meager belongings into the cardboard container.

I’m in that weird state where you don’t know if you’re going to cry or blow a gasket, and when in doubt, I always lean toward anger.

Fuck this company.

Fuck these guys in their dev cubicles who get to keep their jobs.

Fuck everyone and everything.

After the last of my personal items is in the box—an adorable, miniature stuffed bunny with a gamer headset and a pink tee that says “Girls Do It Better” that I got at a convention some years ago—I make my way to the exit.

Walking out of your office building with all your personal belongings in a box, there’s no doubt what’s going on; everyone’s pitying gazes trying not to stare too long, their voices hushed as you walk by.

It’s more shameful than anything.

I mean, at least if you’re doing the actual Walk of Shame from some rando’s apartment in the morning, chances are you were fucked in a good way.

This is not the “good” kind of fucked.

The entire drive home, my teeth grind and my head aches as I start wondering what I’m going to tell my family at our annual Thanksgiving gathering.

It took me years to convince my parents that character design in the gaming industry was the right career choice for me. A good choice.

Any time I had a bad experience, my dad would tell me, “You need to get a real job.”

So, I learned really quickly not to tell them anything that was going on in my career. Then, that turned into not telling them anything about my life in general, responding to passing inquiries with “Everything’s great.” Never an elaboration, and never one hundred percent the truth.

Now, it’s the holiday season, and I’m unemployed in an oversaturated industry, armed with the promise of a recommendation letter from Troy.

Happy fucking holidays to Izzy Ross.

When I get home to my modest one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a building with multi-million dollar penthouses at the top, I toss my stuff on the kitchen counter and drop down onto my couch, fingers already tapping my phone before I land on my ass.

“What’s wrong?” is the greeting my friend, Bec, gives me, in her usual brash, no-nonsense tone.

I sigh. “What makes you think something is wrong?”

She huffs a humorless laugh. “Girl, it’s mid-afternoon and you’re calling me. We never talk before your work day is over.”

Huh.

“So, what’s wrong?”

I sigh again, roll over onto my side, and put the phone on speaker. “I got fired.”

The silence stretches long enough that I check my phone to make sure the call is still connected.

It is.

I wince, and wait for it, in three, two—

“What kind of flying father-fucking shit is that?”

I choke a laugh at her shriek, then purse my lips. I can always count on Bec to give voice to my inner thoughts I hadn’t even known I had.

Flying father-fucking shit, indeed.

“My supervisor said it was a downsizing, but I was the only one packing my shit,” I grumble. “And I’m supposed to hop in my car and head to my parents’ place for Thanksgiving in two days.”

Bec already knows all about my familial relationships, and I expect another outburst from her. Instead, I get an oddly calm, “Ditch them.”

This makes me sit upright, brows drawing in question. “And do what?”

“Make an excuse—something good—and book a stay up in Crescent Lake.”

“Crescent Lake?” The name is familiar. “Wait, isn’t that where Violet Marshall moved to a year or so ago?”

“And Steve and Sam Bauer, yeah.”

I frown at this. “What am I supposed to do in a strange town over the holiday? I’m not going to barge in on someone else’s family time.”

“Don’t worry about all that,” Bec tells me in a tone that immediately spikes my suspicion. “Let me book you a stay at this adorable B&B I stayed at during Violet’s wedding. It’s amazing, I promise.”

“I don’t know, Bec—”

“My Christmas gift to you, Iz.” The way she says it leaves no real room for argument.

Not that I won’t try anyway. “Look, Bec, I appreciate it, but I really should just get this over with, you know? Go to Long Beach for a week, see my family, tell them their only daughter is an unemployed artist and let them make themselves feel better by talking about how great my brother is doing in life.”

“Do you hear yourself?” she demands. “This is your holiday season, too. You don’t need to put up with that shit. Do something for yourself, or I will make you.”

It sounds like a threat. And maybe it is.

I smoosh my lips between my teeth, then jut my jaw.

I mean, Bec’s right. I should be able to enjoy the holiday season, too, without being miserable.

If I go see my family, I’ll definitely be hating life for it.

If I go to Crescent Lake, a place where only two people in the whole town know me and will likely never see me, the possibilities are open for a fun celebration. Or, at the very least, a quiet one.

And maybe I’ll get lucky and it will snow while I’m there. Outside the mountain caps on the horizon, I haven’t seen snow since I was a little kid.

What’s the worst that could happen?

“Okay,” I say firmly, nodding my head to myself. “I’ll go to Crescent Lake for Thanksgiving. I can tell my family that a big project has a tight deadline and I can’t make it.”

“You’ve made the right decision.” Bec’s tone has that strange vibe to it, where she knows something you don’t and will go to her grave with the information.

This woman is trouble. The best kind of trouble, usually.

I’m putting my office belongings away when my phone chimes with Bec’s text, giving me the address and booking information for the B&B.

The Cozy Crescent.

Huh. That sounds… cute.

It’s then I catch that the check-in time is tomorrow morning.

What the hell, Bec?

After a moment of gaping at the screen, I rush for my bedroom to get my suitcases packed. One for everyday clothes, the other for miscellaneous items, like a puffy coat and winter boots, just in case.

Once I have my laptop packed in its bag, I grab my stuffed bunny from the office and stick it in one of the suitcase's zipper compartments.

Later, I rummage through my fridge and stuff myself with leftovers from the night before, take out the trash so it won’t stink while I’m gone, and take a nap.

It will be a seven-hour drive, and the check-in time is 11 am, so I’ll be leaving in the early morning darkness.

My alarm rouses me, and I shower and then dress by the dim bedside lamp.

Before I put my shoes on, I reach for the little notepad and pen on my nightstand that I usually use to jot down ideas I have in my dreams. I can’t remember if I dreamed anything during the five hours of sleep I’d gotten, but that’s not what I need the paper for this time.

I write three names on the small sheet: Troy, Bill, and Hugo.

My supervisor, the general manager, and the CEO.

I tear the sheet off the pad, then tear twice more to separate the names, fold them in half, and stick them into my sneaker. When I slip my foot in the shoe and feel the little papers crinkle, a sense of satisfaction overtakes me.

With every step I take, I’ll crush them underfoot and rise above them, all while telling the universe I want them out of my path.

An old trick I learned from my elderly neighbor while I was growing up. It never ceased to make me feel better.

With bags in tow and enemies squashed, I leave my apartment to head to Crescent Lake.